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Click here to access articles from other past issues of the SGM Journal/Newsletter: Archives. We place a nearly complete selection of key articles from each issue of Refresh on the SGM website. Printed copies of the full Journal is available by mail. There is a suggested donation of $5 per issue (New Zealand subscribers) to help cover costs of publication and postage. Simply email our Administrator, Carole Hunt, with your name, postal address and email address and you will be added to our mailing list:
Intimations of life, of something more, somewhat deeper, fresher, larger, beyond, somehow breaking in, further along, higher, coming into focus or just right under our noses! That’s what the poems and article themes in this issue of Refresh suggested to us as we pondered them looking for a title! A strange way to work? Yes, but then we are presenting an accumulation of poems in particular that we haven’t used thus far and want to share. The articles, written or contributed for this Refresh, also encourage discoveries about growth of one kind or another, so really it’s an issue about growth, but intimations of life seems a little more enticing! A Frederick Buechner quote touches into this. He’s been writing about sacraments and says, A sacrament is when something holy happens. It is transparent time, time which you can see through to something deep inside. … Needless to say, church isn’t the only place where the holy happens. Sacramental moments can occur at any moment, any place and to anybody. … If we weren’t blind as bats, we might see that life itself is sacramental.1 This territory isn’t always simple, easy, or clear and certainly not linear or accumulative. Sometimes the deepest growth comes out of the greatest pain or difficulty. At other times the most delicate intimation signals fresh insights that surprise and delight. At other times the darkest times can shift us further than we could hope for. At others the steady flow of successes do little for inner life with God. Then again a fresh sense of grace received, a glimpse of beauty or truth lifts the heart with joy and delight. So often we are brought back to the delights and mysteries of life and faith, and to following simply come what may, “one foot after the other in love and trust”. We acknowledge the contributions of two men who have died recently. Brother Roger, founder of Taizé Community in France, a Swiss Reformed layman, was murdered during a worship time a few weeks ago and Andrew and Lyn Pritchard were there 10 days later. Andrew’s article tells the story. Scott Peck, the American psychiatrist and writer who has blessed many people worldwide with his numerous books on personal growth and moving further along the road less travelled of spirituality in our contemporary world died recently. We thank God for them both. They have been intimations of life and hope for many. With this issue we’re introducing colour into the centrespread and two photos and to cover the cost of this reduce the size somewhat. Digital printing opens up some fresh possibilities in production and with this issue we’re experimenting a little. Last issue (Amazing Grace) we included two articles on Jewish and Muslim Sufi views of grace. As other children of Abraham and Sarah we wanted to see how they understand grace. In this issue we explore how an avowed atheist explores spiritual themes, and again it’s very enlightening. We trust this stretching material takes us all to the uncomfortable edges of our comfort zones and sharpens our understanding of the riches we have in Christ Jesus our Lord.
Life - journey to God, long or short easy or hard, pilgrimage our life’s work.
Jesus, our Brother travelled our path, shows us the Way.
Holy Spirit, our companion gives us strength, directs our feet.
God, our Father, our destination, hope of our journey, object of our desiring and deepest longing, priceless treasure, waiting to welcome us home at our journey’s end
and
Is this a dying I can feel raw squeezing contained and stuck a too-small sleeping bag grave clothes wrapped tight?
Or is this vulnerable place a cocoon’s embrace womb for a new birth?
Is that a dirge I hear in the distance coming closer a bell tolling for me?
Or is that sound the rattling of bones taking on flesh gasping for breath ready to rise and leap and dance?
MAKING MY
STEPS SECURE A
meditation on Psalm 40
are the solid soles of Your boots immediately above me, crampons jammed into the unforgiving ice.
I dare not look below me into the swirling mist and dizzy depths where death lies in wait for the slip of the axe, the slide of the toe.
I cannot see in front of me for the bulk of Your Being fills my stinging eyes, hiding the reality, stark or shining, of what lies ahead.
There is only this present moment: a chiselled intensity redeemed by single-minded trust; a riveted togetherness defying common sense; a glimpse of eternity etched into the mountainside like a sculptor’s prayer.
(This poem was awarded second place in the Spiritual Directors International poetry competition in 2005)
Come explore
Don’t compare
Notice small delights
The slower pace
PSALM 96 A prayer for worship by David Grant We sing a new song today.
We sing a song made new by the anniversary of Christ’s birth. We sing a new song as angels sang: Glory to God in the highest and on earth, peace.
We sing a new song, all of us even if the rough passage out distorts the sound, even if we can’t keep the tune; we sing a new song.
We sing a new song even if it is under our breath in case someone hears, even if self-consciousness gets the better of us; we sing a new song.
The song made new because God is with us. We sing a new song old words old tradition old story new song because of newness within ourselves.
Newness born when babies are born. Newness born when Christ is born. Newness born when our memory and the present meet, and conceive new hope new life God with us.
We sing a new song when Christ is born.
AMEN.
From Grant Us Your Peace. Prayers from the Lectionary Psalms. Chalice press. 1998 P.71
I have depended on you since birth. You have always been my God. I say I chose you when I was sixteen asked you into my heart gave my life to you as if this was when it all started Really, it was just another step another page of the story which lived in your heart before time began You have always been my God Words of truth painted in love colours so deep that my mind demands I kneel before them absorbing them into the new canvas of today
SUNRISE ON LONELY TRACK ROAD
by
Andrew Dunn The light of dawn was breaking fast against the dark of night receding westwards firmly, irresistibly.
The air was fresh enough inviting quickening pace, and, as the doctor said, “Get your pulse up mate and keep it ticking over at 120 beats a minute – and that’s no garden stroll or sniffing flowers at leisure!”.
So breath came fast and pulse rose too, and warmth held back the cold as mist came in from nowhere and threatened longer views. Manuka, hakea and pine trees disappeared amongst the fog as if to hide their waking hour, coy before the rising day.
For me it was a time to say how sorry I was that dawn today was lost And all the usual inspiration seemed to disappear. But then the sun rose over Rangitoto, or was it Motutapu or the Coromandel? I could not see. And all the closing fog and cloud began to glisten and glow around. And manuka, hakea and pines lit up as back light just for them flicked on and lit the eastern side of morning like earthbound Aurora – ghostly, gleaming, the foggy light in Fangorn Forest’s dawn or the long fireworks afterglow at Bilbo’s farewell party.
A camera would have caught the moment if one had been to hand; but why would anyone want to try to capture this performance in chemicals or digitals when it was not for capture or for holding - but for something else it seemed, more tender, more lasting?
And anyway, it wasn’t really something to see out beyond me on the road for as I walked I trod inside the fog and dawn-light sun’s glow among the trees and bush; and it became so clear that here were special effects on a morning walk encompassing and enfolding, like theatre in the round, like Cats in Covent Garden: around, behind, above, below, in front, within, on every side – and just performed for me! The homeward road seemed warmer, the hills less steep, the distance shorter, and another pulse was pumping inside like an excitement, an expectation, a sense of joy and timing that no other day had brought, and there have been many on that road. This was the one where something special happened, unplanned, unexpected but remembered.
And the only response my heart could find was “Really?”, “Of course!” and “Thankyou!”
PRAYER by Brother Roger of Taizé Christ, you came to earth not to condemn the world, but so that every human being might find a road opened by your compassion.
You are the one who loves me into the life that has no end. You comprehend everything in me, my desire to understand and to be understood, to love and be loved.
You open the way of risk. Little by little, you transfigure the no in me into eternity’s yes.
Brother Roger of Taizé
TAIZÉ … Ten
Days On by
Andrew Pritchard When we planned to visit Taizé as part of our long awaited OE we had of course no inkling of the tragedy that was to unfold. Watching news and reading papers was not high on the list of priorities while we were away so it was an email from Kopua that brought the shocking news of Brother Roger’s murder. Our thoughts and prayers turned immediately to the Taizé Community, the Brothers who were so close to Brother Roger and to the thousands of young people at Taizé. As the time of our visit drew closer we wondered what affect such a huge loss would have on the morale and spirit of the community. Would there be a sombre mood? A sense of heaviness? A difficulty in worship? An undercurrent of questioning God? … We arrived on a Friday morning ten days after Brother Roger’s death. As we passed through the entrance there were dozens of cheerful people milling around, engaged in conversation. We were quickly recognised as ‘first-timers’, greeted and taken to the welcome centre. Introductions were made, questions answered, meal vouchers organised. Only when we asked about the impact on the community was anything said about Brother Roger’s death. While there was great shock and sorrow at the nature of his death there was no regret for him … he is with the God who has been the love of his life … his giving of himself in life appeared to flow seamlessly into his giving of himself in death … the community of Brothers that he lead in life is strong and vibrant … There was, however, relief that the disruptions to community life and worship caused by necessary police investigations and inevitable media interest had ended. On this day, ten days on, the only obvious evidence of Brother Roger’s death was the carpet of fresh flowers in the little cemetery outside the village church where Brother Roger is buried and the regular flow of people pausing there to pray and give thanks for his life. Back in the community dozens of groups of young people were sitting in the sun engaged in discussion based on the bible passage shared earlier in the morning. African, Indian, western European, eastern European, American, Australian people were amongst the nationalities that we recognised and of course some kiwis! Average age? My guess would be mid-twenties. We joined with an estimated 2500 people for midday prayer in the Church of the Reconciliation. Some 30 Brothers were there. The worship was simple and beautiful … several chants, the reading of scripture, one or two prayers, the time of silence … simple yet profound with a deep sense of openness to God and humble receptivity. Lunch was a joyful time of sharing food and friendship. The efficiency with which such large numbers were catered for was impressive. The volunteers serving food did so cheerfully and helpfully, their demeanour spoke of a service gladly given to God. For us the afternoon was spent joining the song practice in the church, visiting the village church and enjoying the atmosphere of a walk in the Taizé countryside. Later we tried not to spend too much money on books, icons, CDs and pottery and then attended one of the regular afternoon workshops. “Searching for Paradise” was a reflection on heaven and eternity seen through seven paintings from ancient Egypt to the present day. This was a stimulating and informative workshop presented by one of the Brothers. We left Taizé after Friday night prayer, hearts full, spirits refreshed. The community is vibrant and strong. The death of its founder, while tragic and shocking was met with love and humble trust by those who live on. Brother Roger has sown the truths of these simple words, and his life, well. This ‘grain of wheat’ who has fallen into the ground and died continues to bear much fruit. Thanks be to God.
FAILURE AS SACRAMENT by David Crawley
Failure is something that many of us try to avoid at all costs. From the time we are little we learn the painful social consequences of failure. Who has not at least tasted the agony of being laughed at, shamed, mocked, or branded as a loser by the very people we hoped might accept and approve of us? Failure also confronts us with the unwelcome reality that we are not the person we liked to think we were. Jay Hanke captures it with the suggestion that failure is “a tear in the fabric of who I am”: Failure is a dark experience that tells me, even as I struggle not to know or hear it, that at some basic level of my being I am inadequate. Somewhere in my life, I have not attained my own expectations for my behavior, my achievement, my personhood. At some level and to some degree, my failure is not just a “goof.” It is a tear in the fabric of who I am, a fissure in my sense of self, a shadow in my soul.1 Of course, sometimes a feeling of failure is really just the result of coming up against another person’s unreasonable expectations – like a mother who feels a failure because her children fight and don’t clean up after themselves – somewhere she picked up a message that a perfect mother wouldn’t have children who did those kind of things! If we are perfectionists, it may be our own unreasonable expectations of ourselves that lead us to struggle with feelings of failure. We set the bar impossibly high for ourselves. Yet there are times when even by a reasonable standard we have failed, perhaps spectacularly. A moment of irresponsibility, stupidity, desperation or betrayal that leads to failure and regret. And at other times failure comes out of left field, when we were really doing our best to succeed. Perhaps a business failure, a family breakup, a job loss, a character assassination that wasn’t deserved. Either way the end result is often a deep sense of shame and humiliation. Failure may rupture not only our sense of self, or our relationships with others, but also the fabric of our relationship with God. God, how could you have let this happen to me? Why didn’t you warn me? Why didn’t you protect me? I was doing my best to live for you and you let me fail, you let me be humiliated. I felt so utterly alone – where were you? Think of the crucified Jesus – humiliated, stripped of all dignity, stripped of reputation, his followers disappointed, his opponents mocking and taunting. He saved others, he cannot save himself! Three amazing years of ministry all apparently for nothing. My God, my God, why have you forsaken me? On a recent retreat I confronted some of my own painful memories of having failed – by my own standards if no one else’s. They were literally painful memories, like a knife in the guts. In my room at the retreat centre where I was staying, there was a crucifix on the wall. A familiar representation of the suffering Jesus nailed to a cross. As I looked up at the crucifix on this occasion, I found myself saying: “You know don’t you? You really do know what it’s like.” I saw the wound in his side where a spear had been thrust in to make sure he was dead and felt a connection with the stabbing pain of memories I was re-experiencing. So I found I was not alone in my wrestling with a sense of failure and humiliation. For me, failure as sacrament first meant that in Jesus I had a companion who knew exactly how I was feeling. There was also a sense of invitation: “You know you don’t have to carry this alone. Let me carry the weight with you. Find rest in me.” As the retreat progressed, another picture captivated me – Rembrandt’s painting “Descent from the Cross”. It is an unappealing picture of Jesus – a naked, lifeless corpse – humiliated, flopping about in an awkward, almost grotesque manner, completely helpless. It reminded me of Aslan in The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe. The noble King of the Beasts is bound, shorn, taunted and killed. His body is left lying on the stone table, humiliated and abandoned. Our lowest moments may also leave us feeling utterly exposed, naked, humiliated and alone in the world. It is easy to feel like an alien among those whose lives seem so normal, untroubled by the shame of failure that is tearing at the fabric of our lives. As I continued to look at Rembrandt’s painting my focus widened from Jesus’ humiliated, lifeless body to those who were lovingly letting him down from the cross. I was moved by the care and effort with which they were handling his body. Others look on – Joseph of Arimathea, who had negotiated with Pilate to obtain Jesus’ body and provided the tomb where it would be buried, and the women who stayed with Jesus throughout his ordeal. In The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe, we find that Aslan also is not utterly alone in the hour of his humiliation. Lucy and Susan hold vigil, and in time the little mice who love their Lion King creep out to nibble through the ropes binding him so tightly. The phrase that came to me in relation to the painting was “Humiliation held gently.” Such love surrounds Jesus in this picture, despite his pitiful and humiliating state. I thought about the quality of love that he had shown to unlovely, untouchable people in his lifetime – lepers, people with appalling diseases and deformities, poor people, all kinds of people who in their own societies were failures and worse than failures. The quality of love that Jesus showed these people is shown now to him in his time of rejection, humiliation and apparent failure. Humiliation held gently. A body let down gently. In his dying moments Jesus cries out, “My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?” “Where are you when I need you … Why have you let me down?” We could see this picture as one of God’s absence, God’s failure to be there when needed. Yet God is there – in the love and care of those who attend to Jesus in his death. Within the circle of friends that attend to Jesus Rembrandt captured a special quality of light, standing out from the background darkness of the work. Is God absent in Jesus’ darkest moment of utter humiliation? Has God let him down? No. God is present, both in the suffering of Jesus on the cross and in this loving letting down of Jesus from the cross. Humiliation held gently, lovingly. Failure as sacrament. Sometimes I wonder too whether God has let us down, when I watch people’s lives utterly devastated and reduced to a pitiful level of existence - through a tsunami, a hurricane, an earthquake, war or terrorism. God, why have you forsaken these people? But at such times a myriad of little loving actions can also be seen, if I look for them. Ordinary people emerge to give, go, help, pray, and weep with those who are weeping – humiliation is held gently. The God who apparently abandons and lets people down reappears in the love of those who gently reach out to help. I wonder who will be there for me when I find myself in a place of pitiable failure and humiliation? I think of the people who have been there at such times. I have a renewed sense of the importance of not judging others, not gossiping their misfortunes, not shrinking back in embarrassment when people make a mess of things - but rather stepping forward to be a friend, helping to hold their humiliation with care and gentleness. “Truly I tell you, just as you did it to one of the least of these who are members of my family, you did it to me.” (Matt 25:40) Failure as sacrament. The reality of my own failures brings me to the cross. I rediscover the companionship of Jesus. I glimpse the presence of God just when I thought God was absent. And eventually I am led beyond self-pity to a deeper humility, compassion and practical love for others in their time of need.
Spiritual growth is human development. It’s the way we see meaning rather than random probability or chaos in how we change through time. Growth means becoming more conscious at every level of our humanity and when consciousness has reached a sufficient degree we may begin to speak, tentatively, of enlightenment. Even if there are sudden and wonderful experiences that illuminate our path from time to time, the deeper work, of turning the dark places in our unconscious into light, is gradual. So it is also ordinary, humble and needs perseverance – like meditation itself which serves this essential human work of growth. So, in the Christian understanding in particular, perhaps enlightenment is linked to moral maturity. What is the point or meaning of ‘spiritual experiences’ if we have not become nicer people, more patient, more kind, more attentive, more truthful? The unloving know nothing of God, is the simple reply of the New Testament. It reminds us that only the moral and the mystical in harmony can enlighten our darkness and free us from the habits of darkness. It is love, meaning the single experience of loving and being loved, that is our deepest desire and joy and only the fulfillment of that desire and the celebration of that joy really changes us. Anything else is not growth but a temporary adaptation from which we eventually revert back into old habits of being.
So the spiritual journey of human growth is gradual – ‘shining like a lamp in a
murky place until day breaks and the morning star rises to illuminate your mind’
(2 Peter 1). Yet it is also a timeless process, not of acquisition which is a
tedious business, but of realization which is simply seeing and recognizing. Christian Meditation Newsletter, Vol. 29, No. 3; September 2005. 3.
SPIRITUALITY AND THE SCIENCE FICTION WRITING ATHEIST by Adrienne Thompson Only in silence the word, only in dark the light, only in dying life: bright the hawk’s flight on the empty sky. — The Creation of Ea1
Why introduce Ursula LeGuin to readers of Refresh? Partly because I have always been a passionate advocate for my author of the moment (would you like to hear about Frederick Buechner some time?). But mainly because I enjoy the flavour of the fact that LeGuin, an avowed atheist, gives me such richness of metaphor and meaning, image and story to illuminate my faith. I first read Ursula LeGuin when I was about 12 years old. A Wizard of Earthsea, The Tombs of Atuan and The Farthest Shore all tell of the young Wizard, Ged and his many voyages among the Islands of Earthsea.2 I adored the fantasies but only recently discovered LeGuin’s science fiction books. Some are lightweight, some immensely serious, but every one I’ve read has given me some gift for my spiritual imagination. With difficulty and reluctance I’ve selected just three themes to talk about. I hope some readers will proceed from this introduction to make their own discoveries. To those who are already addicts, my contrition for all I have left out.
Light and Shadow More than 30 years before J K Rowling invented Hogwarts Ursula LeGuin created Roke, the Innermost Isle of Earthsea. The students at the school for Wizards were showing off. As young men will, they dared each other to ever more dangerous feats of magic. Ged, gifted and arrogant, successfully summoned a long dead spirit. But with that act he released into the daylight world a nameless shadow that tore his face. The shadow pursued Ged. At last he sought help from his old teacher Ogion who told him that he must master the shadow by naming it. Ged stopped running from the shadow and instead hunted it. It fled from him to the uttermost sea where at last he confronted it. “Aloud and clearly, breaking that old silence, Ged spoke the shadow’s name, and in the same moment the shadow spoke without lips or tongue, saying the same word: ‘Ged.’ And the two voices were one voice…. [Vetch] began to see the truth, that Ged had neither lost nor won but, naming the shadow of his death with his own name, had made himself whole: a man: who, knowing his whole true self cannot be used, or possessed by any power other than himself, and whose life therefore is lived for life’s sake and never in the service of ruin, or pain, or hatred, or the dark.”3 Make your own connections. I won’t tell you mine. LeGuin herself acknowledges her debt both to Jung and to the story teller Hans Christian Anderson. But please note that in giving this brief extract I’ve in fact distorted the story. Its meaning is only found in the long tale of Ged’s quest with all its companions and encounters.
Story and Message I’ve loved stories ever since I can remember. I came to the Bible first as a book of stories but it wasn’t too long before I learned the ‘proper’ way of reading it. Here is the story. This is what it means. Once the doctrine or the moral has been distilled from the narrative, the story becomes unimportant. The abstract concept is the thing, the story merely its container. Ursula LeGuin is a story teller who sometimes reflects on how her stories are received: My fiction, especially for kids and young adults, is often reviewed as if it existed in order to deliver a useful little sermon (“Growing up is tough but you can make it,” that sort of thing). Does it ever occur to such reviewers that the meaning of the story might lie in the language itself, in the movement of the story as read, in an inexpressible sense of discovery, rather than a tidy bit of advice? Ah! My Bible comes alive again. It’s not a book of messages, of doctrines or of instructions. Multidimensional and mysterious the Bible can become again a world for me to live in instead of a series of moral fables. LeGuin continues: The complex meanings of a serious story or novel can be understood only by participation in the language of the story itself. To translate them into a message or reduce them to a sermon distorts, betrays, and destroys them. … Reading is a passionate act. If you read a story not just with your head, but also with your body and feelings and soul, the way you dance or listen to music, then it becomes your story. And it can mean infinitely more than any message. It can offer beauty. It can take you through pain. It can signify freedom. And it can mean something different every time you reread it.4 ‘Participation in the language of story.’ Isn’t that, in part, what I do, as I attempt to pray the Scriptures? Living the story with intellect and imagination allows it to possess me and transform me in a way beyond the power of sermons or “messages”.
Ideas The great advantage of writing science fiction is self evident – you can invent your own world. This means you can play with ideas and play them out in a way that would be completely impossible if you confined your characters to earth. One of the ideas Ursula LeGuin explores is the notion of gender. What does it mean to be male or female? She invented a race of hermaphrodites and set them on a planet caught in an ice age. The people of Gethen are sexless most of the time. Each month they morph into either male or female beings for a few days. Any mature person can beget or bear a child. Any adult can be pregnant and a nursing mother for part of her life and a father in the next period of his existence. Weird? Yes. But the story can let you ask the question: what difference does gender make? “Imagine no religion,” wrote John Lennon. Ursula LeGuin did. Most of her worlds have no religion, and whenever she does describe a formal belief system it always turns out to be destructive. On the other hand, ritual, ‘mindfulness’ (perhaps what I would describe more clumsily as the contemplative attitude) and an ethic of respect and trust are evident in all her worlds. Going to another planet is the ultimate exercise in crossing cultures. So as a science fiction writer LeGuin illuminates how it feels to be stripped of one’s assumptions about right and wrong, proper and improper. She describes the experience of an ambassador to another planet. He explains why he has come alone: ‘It’s the Ekumen’s custom, and there are reasons for it. Though in fact I begin to wonder if I’ve ever understood the reasons. I thought it was for your sake, that I came alone, so obviously alone, so vulnerable, that I could in myself impose no threat, change no balance, not an invasion but a mere messenger boy. But there’s more to it than that. Alone, I cannot change your world. But I can be changed by it. Alone, I must listen, as well as speak. Alone, the relationship I finally make, if I make one, is not impersonal and not only political: it is individual, it is personal, it is both more and less than political.5 Ursula LeGuin claims no religious faith yet her books breathe reverence for life and being. By inventing fantastic worlds she amplifies my sense of this world’s reality. In her stories I find wonder, paradox and truth.
A few of my favourite books by Ursula LeGuin Earthsea Books: A Wizard of Earthsea; The Tombs of Atuan; The Farthest Shore; Tehanu; The Other Wind. Science fiction Novels: The Left Hand of Darkness; The Dispossessed; The Telling Short Stories: The Birthday of the World; Four Ways to Forgiveness
1 From ‘the oldest and most sacred poem’. See Tales from Earthsea Orion 2002, p.275 2 Many years later LeGuin wrote more books in this series: see the book list at the end of this article. 3 From A Wizard of Earthsea 1968. The Earthsea Quartet Penguin 1993 p.164 and 165 4 A Message about Messages by Ursula K. LeGuin. See www.cbcbooks.org/cbcmagazine/meet/leguin_ursula_k.html 5 From The Left Hand of Darkness 1969 Orbit Books, 1992 p 219
to know what I should know, to love what I should love, to praise what pleases you, and to cherish everything that is precious to you. Keep me from judging simply by
what my eyes see, or my help me to know the difference
between appearance and Above all, may I have the grace always to seek your joy.
Thomas a Kempis
Sing of life and love and all that is God of the song God in the song making us as we sing
Be filled with this song
Sing to the Lover To she who gently cups her hand holding the delicate tissues of life touch spanning the aeons
Sing to the one who sweeps wild hues extravagant living rainbow intricate webs Seeping sensuality Sing to the Keeper Strong earth force of being reliable permanent solid foundation Dusting the edges Delicately turning our sovereign song
Sing to God Maker, Lover and Keeper Sing with God the song of creation All shall be well And all things shall be well And all manner of thing shall be well Sing!
WHERE WAS GOD IN ALL THIS? by David Moxon
The deaths of over 200,000 people due to the Tsunami on Boxing Day 2004 filled us all with huge shock, sorrow and compassion. The tragedy touched this country in a special way, as can be seen by the response to the Christian and State Tsunami appeals. |
